Cross of Fire

by Mark Keating

  His entrance would have been heard but before announcing himself he crept along, away from the hole lest his voice carry too far. The ledge ran around and down the walls, broken into a ruin like so many castles from his homeland since the English came.

  He knew he would now be watched then remembered he was in different clothes and called out before a shot sounded.

  ‘It is I! Father O’Neill!’

  Nothing returned. He jumped the last few feet to land at the edge of the water. There was no trepidation in his footsteps but there was a coolness about his skin that had nothing to do with the languid pool.

  He moved away and into the dark again, into the other chamber where he had left some of his brothers and the handful of pirates that had remained loyal to their captain.

  ‘I have come back! As I swore!’ His voice rang back at him. ‘I am alone!’

  Still he was not met.

  He began to think of the woodcut plates of Bibles and the fate of the damned and then just as his thoughts had begun to pull away the veil of his faith he had turned the corner, and Levasseur was there.

  O’Neill put a fist to his mouth at the sight and smell of the floor of the cave. He crossed himself and brushed the blowflies away then looked up at the motionless figure seated above it all.

  Levasseur.

  Still he looked the captain in his blue wool coat and scarlet brocade hat. He had seemingly spent the weeks of waiting to make a throne of rocks situated beneath a perfect beam of sun. He had piled the gold about his feet like steps, had carpeted a path with it. Rubies and diamonds on his lap like breadcrumbs. He cradled the magnificent Cross of Fire, from his feet to his chest and it blazed in O’Neill’s eyes.

  Levasseur moved amidst the dead.

  Levasseur was not one of them.

  ‘You return, Father,’ his voice gave no emotion and it is hard to read the face of a man who has only one eye, a leather patch over his other. ‘I told them you would.’

  O’Neill gaped at the twisted bodies draped towards the throne, their hands grasping at gold.

  Levasseur moved his shoulder under the cross.

  ‘For their sins they did not believe me.’ He shifted again, towards, and beckoned O’Neill closer as if the weeks had been only minutes and the cavern floor had always been this tomb. ‘Now tell me,’ his soft French accent was slow and calm like the Calais privateer he once was. ‘You have a crew for me, no?’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Noon on the Standard, the day well begun. Readings, logs, purser’s lists, quarter-bills for action, Manvell to make their time and place, confer with the captain and at the ringing of the bell make sail, make way. One more day recorded. But not all of it to be written.

  Coxon set his watch and desk chronometer to the bell. Two hours would have them at Île de France. Water, meat, turtles and birds, some sand underfoot for the men. A few hours of hunting would cheer them and, as he looked at the lists, they at least had a good six weeks of small beer and rum. He would keep a happy ship with that alone but the promise of gold had become the talk of the lower deck and the word had spread of the captured pirate who knew where the gold might be. Aye, the men were no concern. One speech more and they would already be counting their share. It was his young officers that knotted and creased his brow.

  He set to shaving and thinking on them. He soaped and scraped his neck and contemplated Manvell and Howard.

  Dinner last had been formal and trying. He had announced to them all who Dandon was and what he hoped to ‘derive’ from his acquisition. He had watched Howard attentively.

  ‘You understand the validity of this action, Mister Howard?’

  Thomas Howard had sipped his water after his wine before he replied.

  ‘I do, Captain,’ he said. ‘Questioning the pirate as to his captain’s whereabouts will only speed our cause and course.’

  Manvell dropped his fork to his plate and made the whole assembly jump.

  Coxon wiped his mouth.

  ‘Something disagrees with you, Manvell?’

  ‘No, Captain.’ He picked up his cutlery and went again at his Poor John. ‘Nothing disagrees. But I am curious as to how goes the “questioning” of the prisoner.’

  ‘He will need a night to rest,’ Coxon said. ‘I believe the past association of the pirate Kennedy will do well to wile out his ways and means.’

  Howard stopped eating. ‘He will speak willingly?’

  Coxon saw the concern draw on Thomas Howard’s face.

  ‘I hope, Mister Howard. I know that you – in perhaps some addled memory – think this pirate worthy of your compassion. But I hope you also understand the business that we are about here. He will go hungry and thirsty. Nothing more. He’ll talk then.’

  ‘He’ll be burning to talk, will he not, Captain?’ Manvell looked to his plate.

  The others, the doctor and the master, drank slow as they watched Manvell and Coxon lean on the arms of their chairs studiously. The study of men who had deciphered a cheating table of cards between them.

  ‘He will, Mister Manvell,’ Coxon decreed. ‘He is the pirate Devlin’s closest friend – him and a bald, red-bearded bear he keeps to protect. More than that he is his intellectual confidant. I doubt there is anything that Devlin knows that he does not. And we will know it too. Find the gold for our king. As ordered.’

  Manvell nodded agreement. ‘Should we not consider why he left him on Bourbon then? If they are so close after all?’

  Coxon plucked the wine carafe from Doctor Howe’s keeping and poured to his brim.

  ‘For the man’s safety I suspect, Mister Manvell.’ He drank without pleasure, only need.

  ‘Devlin must assume great danger,’ he continued. ‘So should we. But now that I have seen your sword in action, Mister Manvell, I have no fear of anything that might lie ahead.’

  He saluted with his glass and ended the conversation with port and the tale of Manvell’s exhibition to everyone’s pleasure, save for Manvell who accepted his applause graciously, humbly, and drank with the same need as Coxon. And the day began to fade.

  Coxon finished shaving. He stood back from the mirror’s oval frame as if it displayed an oil of his portrait, the sea in the window over his shoulder. A Boston shopkeeper no more. His future yet to be written when he had considered it done. And it had been his boot-wipe that had brought him back to the ledgers. And that for the last time.

  He threw the Dutch towel to the bowl. What would those ladies who bought his cloth and pins make of him now? Pushing their plain daughters at him like samples of sugar. He had retired, done his duty. He had fought in two wars and had hundreds dead under him from the whims of queens and kings. He was the old bull of the field, watching and waiting for the farmer’s shotgun when the time comes to turn his land over to lambing instead.

  The expected knock on his coach came and he reached for the waistcoat over his chair and flapped it on.

  ‘Enter,’ he called.

  Manvell stepped in, his hat already underneath his arm.

  ‘Captain.’

  Coxon waved him in as he dressed.

  ‘How goes it, Manvell?’

  ‘All’s well, Captain. I have convened a shore party for hunting. They are preparing arms and baskets.’

  ‘I would like all the men to go ashore, Christopher. All the watches.’

  ‘How is that, sir?’

  ‘There will be action soon. When the smoke comes men need to remember something to fight for. Let them drink, let them walk on grass in the sun. That might get them through the hours in the dark.’

  ‘They will fight for the Standard surely? For their king?’

  Coxon looked away. ‘The king? I count the Standard fortunate that we can bait them with gold. Have you ever been in action, Christopher?’ He chose to push the name.

  ‘No, Captain.’

  ‘After a few broadsides you’ll be lucky if you can remember the king’s name. Or your own.’

  ‘You expect such?�
��

  ‘The only thing I do not expect, Christopher, is to live. And that has kept me alive in my service. Remember that.’

  He left his coat, being comfortable in shirt and waistcoat. ‘But broadsides? No, I don’t believe so. It will not go that way.’ He thought of explaining further but then better for it. It was too fragile to expose yet what he hoped from the letter he had sent to Devlin. A letter hanging in time, delivered from the past, but when Devlin read it Coxon would be in the room as if actually, as if speaking the very words.

  ‘Pirates will avoid such against a man-of-war. It is deception we must look out for.’

  ‘False colours and such?’

  Coxon let out a frustrated breath. ‘Only if I thought Devlin an author of poor drama like Johnson and as foolish as the pirates in his play. No. You should think more on your watch being taken from your pocket and you paying the pawn ticket to redeem it.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Coxon played his arm against Manvell’s.

  ‘No mind now. All the men to go ashore. Let them know. It will cheer their spirits.’

  ‘They are spirited enough I feel. The gold is already spent.’

  ‘Good. Then cheer them more. It will add up for the days ahead.’

  Manvell understood then. The pirate had not talked yesterday. He had been played a little by Kennedy, he was sure, but Manvell had not seen. Now Coxon wanted an empty ship. The crew would need officers to attend. A pirate might – just might – try escape with such an opportunity. He might have to be shot down. He might have to be shot in the back. Perhaps.

  ‘I feel I had my legs stretched on Bourbon, Captain. I would petition to stay and attend to my instruction.’

  Coxon did not meet his eye. He held his watch and wiped the moisture from its face. The humidity was rising. He thought of the grey clouds that dogged their evening watch, the perspiration at every meal now, every window sweating.

  ‘But let young Howard ashore, Christopher. Send him to find me some eggs to take back to London. That will distract him. Something gentle to take his mind off his dreams. I fear the pirate has reminded him too much of his youth.’

  ‘He is a man now, Captain.’

  ‘All men are children in nightmares. You shall attend him ashore.’

  He thought of his own dream that restless night in Portsmouth. The waters sucking him down, the gold drooling from his mouth, the pirate laughing at him. He slipped his watch away as the bell above rang again.

  ‘His nightmare has become real.’

  Manvell set his own timepiece to the bell. ‘May I assist in the questioning of the pirate, Captain? I should like to hear how a pirate talks.’

  Coxon looked at him now.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Why not?’ He bade Manvell to the coach door with himself behind. ‘If I should suffer Kennedy’s stench . . . And you may lose your novel notions of “false colours” when speaking of pirates. Count your shoes when you leave him.’

  The ship saw them come out together, but only Coxon without hat, without coat, cracked shoes and unbowed hair, as simple as if he were about to pick up holystone and swab bucket. And the officer shone beside him in silk and linen. And Manvell watched the faces above, and from the fore, and from midships. Faces drinking them both in. He shook his head at what had been done so easily.

  ‘Come,’ Coxon said. He indicated the companion stair as if it was Manvell’s first time. ‘Let me show you a pirate.’

  Manvell took off his hat and stepped down. He watched the eyes of the crew follow him.

  Nothing stayed secret on a ship. Their captain promised them gold, his first officer discord, leniency for a pirate who held the keystone of their dreams.

  ‘Have I not seen one already, Captain?’

  Coxon frowned.

  ‘On Bourbon that is,’ Manvell said. He tipped his forefinger to his brow and carried on below.

  Kennedy was already there. He wiped his face clean of sweat and saluted them both. A terrible heat and closeness lurked within and Manvell had never been under the two gun decks before. This was just below the waterline, the air already used, and he could feel the pressure of the water all around. He pitied the pirate who had been there without water or food or fresh air for too many hours. The sound of the animals lapping at their buckets was torturous even to Manvell after only moments.

  ‘Come, Christopher,’ Coxon patted Manvell’s arm. ‘We shall see if he is more communicative today.’

  They weaved through the wooden supports and barrels and past the main mast to the fore and the manger. The deck yawed as the wind came against their larboard bow, the masts angling away from them and not coming back. Chains swung against each other, lanyards creaked. In any other place these sounds would concern. The tremors of strain, the crack of ending.

  Passengers unfamiliar with life at sea would appeal to officers every hour of their first days that the ship was sinking. A wicked mate would take them down to the well and show them the sea for real and roar with laughter as the hose and breeches scrambled up the stair for their lives.

  Dandon hung in his chains, his back crooked, head deep in his shoulder, his hands above him. He was not a tall man – women from their bosom had pointed that out to him often enough – and the overhead had become a church vault to his stretched flesh that had now solidified and hated him. But he forced himself up at their approach.

  ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I am afraid I can offer you nothing in terms of refreshment.’

  Manvell looked for bruises about the face but could see none. He saw just an aching, tired man. Not too much punishment. But lessened dignity.

  ‘You may find a seat about. I myself have adapted to do without.’ He pretended not to recognise the lieutenant from Bourbon and the boat and affected a pained squinting. ‘Ah, sir, you seem familiar . . . Manvell was it?’

  Manvell stepped forward. ‘I am Lieutenant Manvell, sir. You are well?’

  ‘As well as to be seen. As well as any pirate on a king’s ship.’

  Coxon set himself against a barrel.

  ‘We like to keep pirates so, until they can be tried and hung fairly. Is that not right, Dandon?’

  Dandon sought voices in the dark.

  ‘Is that you, John? Right, you say? As you decree. The animals have eaten if that is what you have come for?’

  Coxon leant forward.

  ‘No, pirate, I have come to ask the same as yesterday.’ He looked at Kennedy as he spoke. ‘I trust no-one has harmed you? You are well, other than for food and water in Kennedy’s company?’

  ‘Is Kennedy here?’ Dandon coughed. ‘I could only detect the manger.’

  Kennedy rushed forward, his hand set to swipe, but found it effortlessly gripped by Manvell’s fist. Kennedy tried to shake free, his eyes locked with Manvell’s, but the arm did not move. Kennedy’s shoulder rolled, tugged, but his hand stayed in the same place, for Manvell’s honed arm was steel-trained. And then it was gone, the fist opened, and Kennedy almost fell with its release, his wrist burning. Manvell did not look at him, and Coxon ignored it all.

  ‘Stay back, Walter,’ Coxon said. ‘I’m sure the pirate will talk for some water and meat. Gravy and meat.’ He stood from the barrel. ‘And wine. Is that not so, Dandon?’ He gave no time for an answer.

  ‘Where is Devlin?’

  Coxon stood close enough to smell the night and the wounds. ‘Suppose I show you a map now? And we shall drink. Drink long and talk about old times. About how you fooled me.’

  Dandon rubbed his face against his sleeve.

  ‘If I say yes, John, you will untie me again. I will go to that room . . . again. I will drink . . . again. And then I will become my arrogant self . . . again. Because I have the long drop of wine in my belly . . . again. And that is all I want. So I will be tortured again.’ He flashed his gold-capped teeth at Manvell. ‘And we will do this . . . again. And again. And again.’

  ‘So you will hang? For nothing more than to tell me wher
e he is going?’

  ‘No,’ Dandon’s body tensed. ‘I will hang because I did not betray. Do you not know how that might feel, John?’

  Coxon twisted away.

  ‘Kennedy?’ Coxon snapped his fingers. ‘Another day of no food or water for this man. But nothing else. He will not be harmed.’ He looked at Manvell. ‘It will do no good.’

  Dandon’s mocking voice spun him back.

  ‘I will tell you that there is a cross, John. A gold cross. With rubies along its sides.’

  ‘The Cross of Fire. We know this. It was part of the haul. What of it?’

  Dandon stood tall in his bare feet. His chains loose.

  ‘It has part of the True Cross within. His cross – if you believe such. And did we not all tremble as children?’

  Coxon stood still.

  ‘What matter?’

  ‘How do you feel Spain, or Portugal, or France, or even New damned Spain would respond to a man who could bring them such? How many Catholic galleons do you think you could go against?’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  Dandon grinned. ‘Ain’t it always?’

  Coxon turned to Manvell.

  ‘Have you seen enough, Christopher? Do you see now? They are intolerable rogues.’

  Kennedy spat on the deck.

  ‘They understand only one thing, sirs. I can make him talk.’

  ‘Perhaps we could get you to write down his confession?’ Manvell said, and even Dandon sneered. Manvell acknowledged Dandon’s look as he turned his back to the wretch. ‘Kennedy, if you hurt a man enough he will tell you he swallowed Jonah.’

  He ducked to Dandon, shielded him from them both with his back. He spoke low.

  ‘If you will but tell, your trial will be at an end, sir.’

  Dandon’s look lightened.

  ‘I am not so mired, sir. You should ask Mister Howard how well I am able to endure thirst.’ He hoped Manvell could read his face. ‘Not everyone on this ship agrees with John’s spirited treatment. You should consider that it is our past experience that silences my tongue. I might be willing to divulge more to “new” powers, Mister Manvell. If I felt less threatened, that is.’